


Unwritten

by ami_ven



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Community: mcsheplets, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-15 02:45:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12312282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ami_ven/pseuds/ami_ven
Summary: Rodney is a writer – and John doesn’t realize he’s Rodney’s biggest fan.





	Unwritten

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ community "mcsheplets" prompt #264 "fan"

“Do you have a tool box?” said the man, when John answered his front door.

“Um, hi?” said John.

“Yes, yes, hello, I’m your neighbor, nice to meet you. Do you have a tool box?”

John nodded. “And the tools to go in it.”

The man rolled his eyes. “Wonderful, I rented the house next to a comedian. Look, the wiring in my house is woefully inadequate, and since I was exiled to… to… wherever this is, the middle of nowhere, with little warning, I didn’t exactly pack everything I needed. No help needed, I just want to borrow the tools.”

“Huh,” said John. He slouched in the doorway. “Pretty sure if you’re renting, you shouldn’t go fiddling with the wiring.”

“Fiddling?” the man repeated, sounding outraged. “I am a _genius_! I think I can handle a little household wiring.”

John gave him a look – he was dressed in faded jeans and a t-shirt that read _I’m with Genius_ , under a worn gray bathrobe. “And Mrs. Newitski is okay with this?”

“Who?”

“Your landlady,” said John.

“Huh,” said the man.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. I’d better come with you.”

“What?” his new neighbor squawked. “You can’t just – Do you know who I am?”

“Nope,” said John, easily. “But I’m the guy with the tools.”

“Yes, yes,” the man agreed. “Fine.”

John smiled. “Great. And the name’s Sheppard. Detective John Sheppard.”

“Rodney McKay.”

“The novelist?” said John, surprised. 

There had been a couple dozen books under that name in the last few years, the super-popular political thrillers that sat at the top of the bestseller list for the few months it took for the next one to come out. John had read one or two, mostly for a lack of having anything else around, but he hadn’t been impressed. The writing wasn’t bad and he’d found himself liking the recurring main character, a government scientist on the wrong side of a dangerous treason plot, but it was all just a little too cookie-cutter cliché for his taste.

“Yes,” said the man – Rodney, apparently. “You’re not a fan, are you?”

“Can’t say that I am,” said John.

“Good, good,” the other man said, distractedly. “I have had enough of fans, let me tell you… Now – you said you had tools?”

*

It turned out that Rodney _did_ know what he was doing with household electrical systems. John straightened things out with Mrs. Newitski by promising that Rodney would fix several other things around the rental property – “This is forced labor, Sheppard,” the writer complained, and John ignored him.

“Don’t you have a novel to write, or something?” John asked, after they had rewired the electrical, gotten three kitchen cabinets to stop squeaking, changed all the incandescent light bulbs to energy-saving LEDs, and fixed the wobbly leg on the dining room table.

“Don’t you have a job?” retorted Rodney.

“Mandatory vacation time,” said John, more easily than he really felt. 

He’d just ended a six-month undercover assignment – successfully taking down a large section of the Genii cartel – and he was on stand-down until the shrinks gave him the all-clear. Before Rodney had moved in next door, he’d spent his time practicing his golf swing (results inconclusive, since he wasn’t using golf balls) and trying to get his partner to give him updates on the other operations against the Genii (so far, Teyla was refusing to budge). And despite Rodney’s protests, the writer never seemed to actually protest his increasingly-frequent ‘stopping by’.

“Did you shoot somebody?” Rodney asked, completely tactless, and John was surprised into a snort of laughter.

“No,” he said, then added, “I mean, not recently.”

Rodney nodded. “Good, good. Then you can keep the fans away, when there’s inevitably a leak about my location from my idiot of a publisher.”

“You’ve been here over a month already,” said John. “Maybe you’re not as popular as you think you are.”

“Excuse you, I am a _genius_ ,” Rodney insisted, and promptly dripped jelly from his PB&J down the front of his bathrobe.

*

“You seem well,” said Teyla, knowingly. 

It had been a few weeks since she’d had time to visit John – she still refused to give him _any_ details about her ongoing cases, and her temporary partner, Ronon, was even worse, giving only one-word answers even to questions like “How are you?”

“I’ve been keeping busy,” John told her. “Are you _sure_ you can’t—”

“I will bring you fully up to speed when you are cleared for duty,” she said, in that infuriating calm voice. “I hope your time off has been restful?”

By which, she clearly wanted to know if he was eating regularly and actually leaving the house. John was annoyed for a moment, before he remembered just how often she’d saved his butt, both in the field and with their paperwork.

“I made a friend, actually,” he said. “Guy renting the house next door, some kind of author.”

Teyla smiled. “That is wonderful, John. It is good to have connections outside of work.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “How’s Torren?”

“Growing every day,” she said. “He asks when his Uncle John will visit.”

“Soon,” John promised. “I just…” He took a deep breath, then admitted, “I don’t quite feel like Uncle John again, yet.”

Teyla nodded. “You will.”

“Sheppard!” called a voice, suddenly. “Sheppard, where are— Oh.”

Rodney came stomping in from the living room, stopping short in John’s kitchen doorway. 

“Um, hi?” he offered. “Your front door was open and I… But you have company, I can come back…”

“You’re John’s new friend?” said Teyla, smiling. “I am Detective Emmagan – Teyla – John’s partner. This is Ronon Dex, also a detective.”

“Hey,” said Ronon.

“Dr. Rodney McKay. PhD, not medical doctor.”

“Yes, I have read your books,” said Teyla. “You are working on another now?”

“Another bestseller,” Rodney said, smugly. “I’ve had books at the top of the New York Times list for the last decade, straight.”

“McKay…” said John, but Teyla smiled.

“That is very impressive. I will look forward to this one. But for now, I need to thank you for looking after my partner.”

Rodney frowned, squirming a little. “Ah. I mean, I haven’t really…”

“You have done much,” she insisted. “He has left the house, made meals and eaten them, gone to his appointments without being ordered.”

“Teyla…” said John, but Rodney brightened.

“I…” he said. “He’s really helped me more.”

“Then I am pleased you’ve found each other,” she said.

*

“Look, I’m not complaining or anything,” said John. Having finished working on Rodney’s rental, they’d moved to John’s house – fixing uneven doors, installing bookshelves, replacing the sink in the upstairs bathroom. “But seriously, aren’t you supposed to be writing a book?”

To his surprise, Rodney sat heavily on the closed lid of the toilet. “I’m stalling.”

“You’re what?”

“I can’t write another of those stupid books!” Rodney cried. “I know, I made my career on them – not to mention millions of dollars – but I just… They’re not even mine, anymore. They used to be, in the beginning. But the more popular the series became, the more my publisher kept trying to limit my plots, edit the stories I did write, always insisting that I publish more novels, even if I don’t feel like they’re really ready.”

“Quantity over quality, huh?” said John.

“Yes! I swore I would never be one of those writers, who just churn out dozens of crappy novels. But I am, and I hate it. I’m still under contract to write three more books, but I just don’t feel it.”

John was quiet for a moment. “Can’t say I really understand,” he said. 

“Have you ever read any of my books?” Rodney asked.

“A couple,” said John. “They were… I’ve read worse.”

“ _I’ve read worse_ ,” repeated Rodney. “Glowing recommendation, there.”

“Sorry.”

“No, no, you’re right. Even the reviews are cookie-cutter anymore. I just want to be able to write something that _means_ something.”

“Okay,” said John. “That, I can understand. Maybe you need to take a break from the _writing_ part, get some inspiration.”

“Like what?”

“Like…” John paused, then hooked a hand under Rodney’s elbow, pulling him up. “C’mon, I have something for you.”

He tugged Rodney down the hall to his bedroom, leaving him to sit at the foot of the bed while he rummaged on his nightstand.

“There’s this book,” he said, over his shoulder. “Published when I was in college, I think, maybe after. I don’t think they published too many, either, I’ve never heard of anyone else who read it. But it just… stuck with me. I re-read it every couple of years. Actually, I was just thinking about reading it again when you showed up.”

“Oh, yeah?” said Rodney. “What book?”

John held it out. “ _The Lost City_.”

“Oh, my god,” breathed Rodney.

“What, you’ve heard of it?” said John. “It’s… I mean, maybe it’s not a classic work of literature, but the characters just seemed so real. I always wondered why there weren’t a dozen of _these_ books.”

“Because they wouldn’t let me write them.”

John half-fell onto the bed, turning around so fast. “What!?”

“R. Meredith,” said Rodney, holding up the book. “That’s me. That was how the publisher got me – they agreed to publish this if I wrote a few thrillers for them. The thrillers took off, and they said this one did terribly.”

“You wrote this?” said John, slowly. “This book?”

Rodney frowned. “I just said that.”

“But that’s… I love this book. Those stupid Dr. Ingram books were okay, but this…”

“Whoa, okay, breathe,” said Rodney. He pushed on John’s shoulder until he sat. “I’ve met some crazy fans before, but…”

John blinked. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“No, this is the best reaction to my writing I’ve ever had!” Rodney insisted. “Usually, it’s weird creepy ‘super fans’ who want to dissect every clue and plot point I’ve ever written. Nobody has ever said they _re-read_ my books.”

“You should write more like this one,” said John, running his thumb over the cover of _The Lost City_.

“I’d love to,” said Rodney. “But how?”

John smiled. “I’ve got an idea.”

*

“Rodney, you are late,” scolded Zelekna, moving into Rodney’s personal space, despite his flapping hands, to brush lint from the shoulders of his jacket. The agent had happily moved with him to his new publisher, and seemed much happier, even when Rodney was late. “The book signing starts in ten minutes.”

“That’s plenty of time,” said Rodney.

“Well, the turn-out is impressive,” Zelenka continued. “A lot of people thought your career would be over when you killed off Dr. Ingram, but the public is really enjoying your new series.”

“I had some great inspiration,” said Rodney. He peeked around the doorway of the ‘employees area’ to see the gathering crowd at the table full of his newest novel – book number four in the _Lost City_ series – but more importantly, he could see John at the front of the line, like he hadn’t read all seven of the pre-publication drafts.

His agent snorted. “Yes, your boyfriend. You are much easier to work with since you met him – if I had known this, I would have tried introducing you to handsome policemen years ago.”

“Ha, ha,” said Rodney, straightening his tie. “And he’s not my boyfriend.”

“No?” asked Zelenka.

Rodney’s smile turned downright smug. “Nope. He’s my fiancé.”

THE END


End file.
